Yellow Houses and Red Houses

I am back from Ladakh. It was a trip and I am still recovering from it. There is so much to say but I'd much rather smile at you and say nothing. For there is nothing that I might say that will make you feel what I felt or see what I saw. I have many, many photos and I will post them as soon as I am home to the comforts of my broadband.

I decided to make a small stop at my birthplace - a city called Calcutta. That is where I am now, learning how familiar this place is to me, even though I have been away so long.

I found some inspiration that I penned this poem down.

“Yellow houses and red houses,
Are friends of each other”,
Says the common clothesline,
To the cracked cement floor,
That lives next door.

A gentle hand that drips of kindness,
But is worn with worries,
Hangs the cotton smell,
Of a man at work,
On the common clothesline.

On the other side, wet footsteps,
Gingerly tread the burning floor,
The smiling cracks,
Then swallow the imprints,
As soon as she steps inside.

In a room inside,
Loud smells escape,
Imminent torture from,
Dutiful ladles and spoons,
And an earthen oven.

In the dismal din,
And the smoky haze,
A mother hums,
A black and white song,
With lots of color.

On the roof above,
Poltu flies a cloud,
In the Kite-filled sky.
Pomy claps her hand,
And eggs it on.

In the westward room,
Which the clothesline cannot see,
Riya stares at the mirror,
And the comb runs itself,
On her big black hair.

In the corner of the mirror,
Kabir’s face is a smile,
He points to his watch,
As the friendly window sill,
Puts his arm around him.

The wizened cement floor,
Cracks into a smile,
And says to the clothesline,
“Yellow houses and red houses,
Are made for each other”.